do i need to
feel your arms tight around mine
to remember
that
i
am a woman?
more-over
the question--
do
i
want your calloused hands
to tell me
that
i
still have curves to keep
my thoughts
company--
that
i
still am capable
of screams & chills beneath
my blue'n black
blanket
worn supple from the heavy
onyx river stones
pulled out
of
your de-Nile
that
i
hauled to the sandbox
beneath the sickly maple
so
i
could build my castle
because
every castle needs
a wall
~Jenica M. Corbett
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A German Requiem
It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.
It is not the houses. It is the spaces in between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
It is not your memories which haunt you.
It is not what you have written down.
It is what you have forgotten, what you must forget.
What you must go on forgetting all your life.
And with any luck oblivion should discover a ritual.
You will find out that you are not alone in the enterprise.
Yesterday the very furniture seemed to reproach you.
Today you take your place in the Widow's Shuttle.
*
The bus is waiting at the southern gate
To take you to the city of your ancestors
Which stands on the hill opposite, with gleaming pediments,
As vivid as this charming square, your home.
Are you shy? You should be. It is almost like a wedding,
The way you clasp your flowers and give a little tug at your veil. Oh,
The hideous bridesmaids, it is natural that you should resent them
Just a little, on this first day.
But that will pass, and the cemetery is not far.
Here comes the driver, flicking a toothpick into the gutter,
His tongue still searching between his teeth.
See, he has not noticed you. No one has noticed you.
It will pass, young lady, it will pass.
*
How comforting it is, once or twice a year,
To get together and forget the old times.
As on those special days, ladies and gentlemen,
When the boiled shirts gather at the graveside
And a leering waistcoast approaches the rostrum.
It is like a solemn pact between the survivors.
They mayor has signed it on behalf of the freemasonry.
The priest has sealed it on behalf of all the rest.
Nothing more need be said, and it is better that way-
*
The better for the widow, that she should not live in fear of surprise,
The better for the young man, that he should move at liberty between the armchairs,
The better that these bent figures who flutter among the graves
Tending the nightlights and replacing the chrysanthemums
Are not ghosts,
That they shall go home.
The bus is waiting, and on the upper terraces
The workmen are dismantling the houses of the dead.
*
But when so many had died, so many and at such speed,
There were no cities waiting for the victims.
They unscrewed the name-plates from the shattered doorways
And carried them away with the coffins.
So the squares and parks were filled with the eloquence of young cemeteries:
The smell of fresh earth, the improvised crosses
And all the impossible directions in brass and enamel.
*
'Doctor Gliedschirm, skin specialist, surgeries 14-16 hours or by appointment.'
Professor Sarnagel was buried with four degrees, two associate memberships
And instructions to tradesmen to use the back entrance.
Your uncle's grave informed you that he lived in the third floor, left.
You were asked please to ring, and he would come down in the lift
To which one needed a key...
*
Would come down, would ever come down
With a smile like thin gruel, and never too much to say.
How he shrank through the years.
How you towered over him in the narrow cage.
How he shrinks now...
*
But come. Grief must have its term? Guilt too, then.
And it seems there is no limit to the resourcefulness of recollection.
So that a man might say and think:
When the world was at its darkest,
When the black wings passed over the rooftops,
(And who can divine His purposes?) even then
There was always, always a fire in this hearth.
You see this cupboard? A priest-hole!
And in that lumber-room whole generations have been housed and fed.
Oh, if I were to begin, if I were to begin to tell you
The half, the quarter, a mere smattering of what we went through!
*
His wife nods, and a secret smile,
Like a breeze with enough strength to carry one dry leaf
Over two pavingstones, passes from chair to chair.
Even the enquirer is charmed.
He forgets to pursue the point.
It is now what he wants to know.
It is what he wants not to know.
It is not what they say.
It is what they do not say.
~James Fenton
It is not the houses. It is the spaces in between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
It is not your memories which haunt you.
It is not what you have written down.
It is what you have forgotten, what you must forget.
What you must go on forgetting all your life.
And with any luck oblivion should discover a ritual.
You will find out that you are not alone in the enterprise.
Yesterday the very furniture seemed to reproach you.
Today you take your place in the Widow's Shuttle.
*
The bus is waiting at the southern gate
To take you to the city of your ancestors
Which stands on the hill opposite, with gleaming pediments,
As vivid as this charming square, your home.
Are you shy? You should be. It is almost like a wedding,
The way you clasp your flowers and give a little tug at your veil. Oh,
The hideous bridesmaids, it is natural that you should resent them
Just a little, on this first day.
But that will pass, and the cemetery is not far.
Here comes the driver, flicking a toothpick into the gutter,
His tongue still searching between his teeth.
See, he has not noticed you. No one has noticed you.
It will pass, young lady, it will pass.
*
How comforting it is, once or twice a year,
To get together and forget the old times.
As on those special days, ladies and gentlemen,
When the boiled shirts gather at the graveside
And a leering waistcoast approaches the rostrum.
It is like a solemn pact between the survivors.
They mayor has signed it on behalf of the freemasonry.
The priest has sealed it on behalf of all the rest.
Nothing more need be said, and it is better that way-
*
The better for the widow, that she should not live in fear of surprise,
The better for the young man, that he should move at liberty between the armchairs,
The better that these bent figures who flutter among the graves
Tending the nightlights and replacing the chrysanthemums
Are not ghosts,
That they shall go home.
The bus is waiting, and on the upper terraces
The workmen are dismantling the houses of the dead.
*
But when so many had died, so many and at such speed,
There were no cities waiting for the victims.
They unscrewed the name-plates from the shattered doorways
And carried them away with the coffins.
So the squares and parks were filled with the eloquence of young cemeteries:
The smell of fresh earth, the improvised crosses
And all the impossible directions in brass and enamel.
*
'Doctor Gliedschirm, skin specialist, surgeries 14-16 hours or by appointment.'
Professor Sarnagel was buried with four degrees, two associate memberships
And instructions to tradesmen to use the back entrance.
Your uncle's grave informed you that he lived in the third floor, left.
You were asked please to ring, and he would come down in the lift
To which one needed a key...
*
Would come down, would ever come down
With a smile like thin gruel, and never too much to say.
How he shrank through the years.
How you towered over him in the narrow cage.
How he shrinks now...
*
But come. Grief must have its term? Guilt too, then.
And it seems there is no limit to the resourcefulness of recollection.
So that a man might say and think:
When the world was at its darkest,
When the black wings passed over the rooftops,
(And who can divine His purposes?) even then
There was always, always a fire in this hearth.
You see this cupboard? A priest-hole!
And in that lumber-room whole generations have been housed and fed.
Oh, if I were to begin, if I were to begin to tell you
The half, the quarter, a mere smattering of what we went through!
*
His wife nods, and a secret smile,
Like a breeze with enough strength to carry one dry leaf
Over two pavingstones, passes from chair to chair.
Even the enquirer is charmed.
He forgets to pursue the point.
It is now what he wants to know.
It is what he wants not to know.
It is not what they say.
It is what they do not say.
~James Fenton
Thursday, March 10, 2011
What My Kids Will Read in Their History Books
(Freestyle enjambment inspired by Di Brandt)
What My Kids Will Read in Their History Books
I need a bumper sticker that says, “DRIVING WHILE BROWN”
& save my local law enforcers & tax dollars the time
& energy of discerning my worth of
whether or not I should be driving my tan (hopefully not too tan)
2001 Alero to pick up my sister Maria, who jokingly says she
will have to change her name when she turns 18 & cannot hide the
fear & confusion beneath thick lowered lashes, or behind her American History book
which makes me wonder
if I should think ahead & counter my irritating knack for losing & forgetting
things & visit my favorite tattoo artist
to ink my social security number on my arm
so they know what I am & forget who I am
because apparently those white stars next to those red stripes
turned piss yellow & we forgot the 12 years
worth of American History book lessons & lectures
funded by the people, for the people,
with liberty & justice
for all.
by:Jenica M. Corbett
What My Kids Will Read in Their History Books
I need a bumper sticker that says, “DRIVING WHILE BROWN”
& save my local law enforcers & tax dollars the time
& energy of discerning my worth of
whether or not I should be driving my tan (hopefully not too tan)
2001 Alero to pick up my sister Maria, who jokingly says she
will have to change her name when she turns 18 & cannot hide the
fear & confusion beneath thick lowered lashes, or behind her American History book
which makes me wonder
if I should think ahead & counter my irritating knack for losing & forgetting
things & visit my favorite tattoo artist
to ink my social security number on my arm
so they know what I am & forget who I am
because apparently those white stars next to those red stripes
turned piss yellow & we forgot the 12 years
worth of American History book lessons & lectures
funded by the people, for the people,
with liberty & justice
for all.
by:Jenica M. Corbett
I Take Cream and Sugar in My Coffee
(Father and Mother poem)
I Take Cream and Sugar in My Coffee
Daddy gave me color,
a piece of his--
forgot the height,
gave sissy double,
tryin’ to make up the slight.
Momma shared her freckles,
a dustin' here, mark there,
makin’ sure I wasn’t bare.
Temper that tames,
Curls playin' games
above his smile,
won’t hide her guile.
Creamed egg shell
met June’s night
--some said a match made for Hell;
Presbyterian and Mennonite.
Dad and Mom used that heated fire,
for I am evidence
of their passionate desire
to take ax to picket fence.
by: Jenica M. Corbett
I Take Cream and Sugar in My Coffee
Daddy gave me color,
a piece of his--
forgot the height,
gave sissy double,
tryin’ to make up the slight.
Momma shared her freckles,
a dustin' here, mark there,
makin’ sure I wasn’t bare.
Temper that tames,
Curls playin' games
above his smile,
won’t hide her guile.
Creamed egg shell
met June’s night
--some said a match made for Hell;
Presbyterian and Mennonite.
Dad and Mom used that heated fire,
for I am evidence
of their passionate desire
to take ax to picket fence.
by: Jenica M. Corbett
poem seedling #1 (why stop signs are good)
(Villanelle style using lines form Jane Roher’s “The Gearshift Poem” and “Room 703”)
Why Stop Signs Are Good
By: Jenica Mae Corbett
Eight years it is still happening-
on the day of his death
I strip butterfly petals, pink pollen lightening
my palms, gathering sticky beneath nails
holding them as he held me bleeding
eight years it is still happening.
petals fall into May’s damp breath
plucked of stem, young life
promised myth--
on the day of his death
the breeze turns, as if to accuse me of lying
leaving me to pick my picked from my lashes
picked as he did those glass shards, ignoring my pleading
eight years it is still happening
pink on white, cross on road leading
to every and nowhere, an etched name – Seth
eight years it is still happening--
on the day of his death.
Why Stop Signs Are Good
By: Jenica Mae Corbett
Eight years it is still happening-
on the day of his death
I strip butterfly petals, pink pollen lightening
my palms, gathering sticky beneath nails
holding them as he held me bleeding
eight years it is still happening.
petals fall into May’s damp breath
plucked of stem, young life
promised myth--
on the day of his death
the breeze turns, as if to accuse me of lying
leaving me to pick my picked from my lashes
picked as he did those glass shards, ignoring my pleading
eight years it is still happening
pink on white, cross on road leading
to every and nowhere, an etched name – Seth
eight years it is still happening--
on the day of his death.
Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea; poems and not quite poems
Born in Knoxville, Tennessee on June 7 1943, Yolande Cornelia “Nikki” Giovanni became one of America’s most influential literary writers. Evidence of this can be seen in her 2002 anthology, Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea; poems and not quite poems, where her humanitarian passion couples with her interest in history to develop a consistence theme.
Growing up close to her grandmother in Lincoln Heights, a suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio, exposed her to the post Harlem renaissance culture that shaped her early career. Another influencing force to her concisely raw voice is Giovanni’s education at Fisk University (1960-1967), a prestigious black college in Nashville, Tennessee. Her schooling there coincided with the university’s own black renaissance, influencing her ideals of raising political and spiritual awareness, particularly (though not restricted to) in relation to the plights and rights of black people. Giovanni’s first expressions took root in her college job as editor of the campus literary magazine, participating in the Fisk Writers Workshop, and in her work to restore the Fisk chapter Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) ( Poets.org). She graduated with honors and B.A. in history, giving her a strong platform to build her voice by using her literary skills and history’s credibility.
Corbett 2
Giovanni’s early work caught the public’s attention with her marriage of controversial issues and unrefined style of poem and prose. Her first published volumes were in response to the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, and Robert Kennedy. It was in her books: Black Feeling, Black Talk (1967) and Black Judgment (1968) that she established her early voice of jarringly raw reality-ism that became a prominent voice in the African-American community. This period of publication for Giovanni can be categorized as the post- college and pre-motherhood era of her life. Her work reflects her life experiences, from travels to Europe and Africa, the birth of her son Thomas Watson Giovanni, on August 31, 1969, to her battle and survival of breast cancer that started in 1995. The transformation of her voice polishes away the roughest of the jagged-edged words of her early work with time, crossing over from the 20th to the 21st century with a deeper style that still retains its sporadic doses of harsh reality, laments of personal loss. Scattered with socio-political controversies capable of capturing and maintaining the public’s attention, Giovanni’s latest publication, Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea (Poems and not quite poems) (2002) exhibits this tone through poems and prose that remember the reality of the Civil Rights, the effects of 9/11 on American society, alongside her own personal trials in life. The works in this anthology maintain the common theme of calling upon the past in order to look to the future, through a lens of humanity issues pertaining to past, present, and future societies. Giovanni calls the audience to remember specific historic events pertaining to the Civil Rights movement and the 9/11 attacks, and then takes that energy of enduring hope and uses it in her poems about her personal struggles pertaining to her fight with breast cancer and the loss of her grandmother.
Corbett 3
A selection of this anthology that strongly supports this theme is, “Another Aretha Poem”(36), which pulls significant events from the Civil Rights era with the purpose of bringing humanitarian focus to the audience. “Another Aretha Poem” is the twentieth piece in Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea. This poem is a free-verse piece that consists of seven stanzas, eight single lines, and one couplet, with a total count of fifty-two lines in all. The overall style is that of enjambment and selective line placement and capitalization, with an overall theme of the Civil Rights Movement starting with the Great Migration of African-Americans in the early 1900’s to current times. Giovanni’s focuses are influencing people and events in a historical context, which when analyzed alongside the enjambment and overall structure of the poem unveils the correlations between the different contexts. Giovanni’s love and knowledge of history and English knit together smoothly and with the strong voice of her call to remember certain aspects of the Civil Rights movement.
She does this through reference to the Great Migration, racism in the 1920’s music business, Brown vs. Board of Education, Gwendolyn Brooks, the role of religion among African-Americans, Emmitt Till, and the bloodshed at the bus terminal in Nashville, Tennessee as a result of the freedom rides. “no. not tired. sick and tired. asking the Lord for strength. asking/ the Lord to guide her feet. tired of her people being killed./ tired of 14-year-old boys being castrated. tired of not being able to/ stop it. no sir. I’ll sit today. this evening. Right now. I shall not be/ moved. no sir.”(pg.37, lines 35-40) Giovanni’s use of the adjective “tired” gives this particular stanza a passive tone, which conflicts with the aggressive content of mass murder and 14-year-old boys being castrated.
Corbett 4
This particular technique keeps the content of the poem from becoming over-bearing to the reader, thus making her work more effective by accomplishing her goal of raising awareness by remembering without alienating her audience. The gradual transformation of Giovanni’s style is said to be partly attributed to her becoming a mother. Giovanni gave birth to her only child, Thomas Watson Giovanni, on August 31, 1969,(ohioana-authors.org) while visiting Cincinnati, Ohio for Labor Day Weekend. She later stated that she had a child out of wedlock at twenty-five because she "wanted to have a baby and she could afford to have a baby" and because of her conviction that (marriage) as an institution was inhospitable to women and would never play a role in her life. After her son's birth, Giovanni rearranged her priorities around him and has stated that she would give her life for him. "I just can't imagine living without him. But I can live without the revolution, without world socialism, women's lib...I have a child. My responsibilities have changed." (Conversations with Nikki Giovanni, University Press of Mississippi [December 1992], p. 66) This turning point in her life still did not stop her from producing award winning works that pertained to these issues, as seen in Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea.
“Desperate Acts (For 9-11)” (45), gives a more concise and compact example of her ability to take events from the past and relate them to the future through a humanitarian’s eye. The poem is composed of eleven lines in four short stanzas that allude to the difficulty of embracing empathy in the face of violence from others, and the ability to accept that life contains painful hardships. “It’s easy to strike back/But hard to understand” (lines 10-11) is the last couplet in the poem and delivers a message that is versatile enough to pertain to many of the historic and current issues in which Giovanni writes.
Corbett 5
Bibliography
· Nikki Giovanni’s Official Website, Biographical Timeline ; http://nikki-giovanni.com/timeline.shtml
· Giovanni, Nikki; Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea (2002); HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
· Conversations with Nikki Giovanni, University Press of Mississippi (December 1992), p. 66
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
complete and utter free-write on the modernism of "The Love Song..." & "Heritage"
| Cullen begins his seven stanza iambic poem with a question concerning the nature of an abstract and rather remote Africa. He lists some tangible images such as; man and woman, sun, sky, sea and earth. The italics draws attention to his internal question of "what is Africa to me?", which is repeated throughout the poem in the same format at the end of each stanza as he tries to answer his own question. He is caught between two cultures, like the "patient etherized upon a table" which begins "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", that refers to a man not feeling his worth or influence in life. "Heritage" is the more modern poem when comparing the two, if you're analyzing them through a lens of addressable modern issues. The issue of ethnic identity crisis found in Cullen's poem in contrast to Prufrock's issue of "mid-life crises" depression is more modern in a societal focal view point. I do not think that one of these poems is "more American" over the other, because I do not think I am anywhere near qualified to distinguish what variables and facets of literature makes a work "American"; it is much too relative and I do not feel comfortable with it. As in regards to the poems "making something new", both Cullen and Prufrock take an internal conflicts that can be found in individuals throughout modern society and frame them in their own style, therefore making it new. "So I lie, who never quite Safely sleep from rain at night— I can never rest at all When the rain begins to fall; Like a soul gone mad with pain I must match its weird refrain."(C.Cullen) Cullen gives an example of this by referring to the state of his own personal soul. |
Shadow Response
| Guillame Apollinaire's 'Shadow' is about a veteran's memories of the war, seemingly condensed into an ever present aura with the narrator. The poem starts out with the narrator feeling leery toward the shadow, "The changing form of my shadow/An Indian hiding in wait throughout eternity/shadow you creep near me". The piece then morphs into a setting where the narrator embraces the presence of the shadow, "But I hear you I see you still/Destinies/Multiple shadow may the sun watch over you/You who love me so much will never leave me". |
eflections of 9/11 response poems
| Espada's Alabanza provided me with a sense of connectedness between the past and present Latino world. I really like the reference to Roberto Clemente, who tried to aid the people of Nicaragua. This poem speaks of culture born of a culture, within a city comprised of a multitude of cultures. Zagajeweski's Try to Praise the Mutilated World is my favorite, because it's about hope. It acknowledges the fact that the world is damaged, yet reminds us to look and see how the world heals itself by just being...and through those personal moments that stay tucked away in our memories for us to pull out and unfold neatly for a moment of reflectve happiness...or praise. Osman's Dropping Leaflets contained imagery that worked well with the overall theme. I enjoyed the comfortable flow of repetition and how that worked in sync with the vivid imagery. The poem I chose from the Poets Against the War website is A Little Later, by: Behzad Zarrinpour. I did so, because of the reference of futility, lack of purpose, redundant and pointlessness, joined with no support of the people. |
March 7th
a year ago
my fingers wove tight in yours
knuckles white as the sterile floors
cold
answering our heels' cries
with hollowed whispers floating
hand
in hand
down the hall
echoed
in our eyes
mine brown
blank
yours hazel red
rimmed
moist
i can see your long lashes
cling
to each other
fused
by the gritty question
why?
by: Jenica Mae Corbett (3/7/11)
my fingers wove tight in yours
knuckles white as the sterile floors
cold
answering our heels' cries
with hollowed whispers floating
hand
in hand
down the hall
echoed
in our eyes
mine brown
blank
yours hazel red
rimmed
moist
i can see your long lashes
cling
to each other
fused
by the gritty question
why?
by: Jenica Mae Corbett (3/7/11)
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